


In Which John Dies

by thequeergiraffe



Series: The Spaces In-between [14]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, in my headcanon Sherlock is something of a nutter, smutty fun times
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-31
Updated: 2012-03-31
Packaged: 2017-11-02 19:54:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/372766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequeergiraffe/pseuds/thequeergiraffe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I'm filled with something intense and irrational, the urge to pull John so close to me that he can never separate, instead melding into me in a process as tidy and natural as cell osmosis. I want to give John so many things; I want to give him music, wealth, comfort, excitement. I want to give him…</p><p>"La petite mort," I murmur suddenly, looking up at him. John's eyes are dark and heavy-lidded, his pupils wide and encircled by the thinnest sliver of sapphire blue.</p><p>(Can be read as a standalone.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which John Dies

_Sherlock:_

My lips trail down from to point of John's jaw, just below his ear, to the bow of his clavicles. His skin is coarse (I taste: sweat, aftershave, and something entirely John) but delightful beneath my searching mouth, and I'm filled with something intense and irrational, the urge to pull John so close to me that he can never separate, instead melding into me in a process as tidy and natural as cell osmosis. I want to give John so many things; I want to give him music, wealth, comfort, excitement. I want to give him…

" _La petite mort_ ," I murmur suddenly, looking up at him. John's eyes are dark and heavy-lidded, his pupils wide and encircled by the thinnest sliver of sapphire blue.

"German and Pashto," John laughs. His laugh is husky, sweet. It sends a little thrill down my spine in a way that nothing but cocaine and corpses have done before. "I'm lost on French, I told you. The Pashto won't do much for me, and honestly German dirty talk kind of freaks me out a bit. So let's maybe stick to English?"

I don't fault him for not understanding. It annoys me, typically, when people fail to  _see_ …but John sees so much more than everyone else that I allow him his (admittedly frequent) failings. With a small sigh, I deign to make myself a bit clearer by dragging my tongue down the length of his chest. "Not dirty talk, John," I whisper a bit breathlessly, planting a kiss just under his bellybutton. I can't keep the edge of excitement from my voice as I rush, "I just realised: I want to kill you."

John stiffens, propping himself up on his elbows. His face, so expressive and open, is showing clear signs of confusion and not a little distress. Ah, I've slipped up. Done something 'Not Good'. Maybe I can assuage his fears? I slide my hand down under the waistband of his preposterously cheap and frankly hideous pyjama bottoms, tangling my fingers in the course hair there, and he huffs out a breath before flashing me a lopsided grin and falling back against the bed. "I know you well enough to know you'd never be caught," he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice even if I can't see it, "but I do think you'd feel a touch of regret, at the very least. Could be flattering myself, but…"

"If I ever really killed you," I say, a little startled at the depth of my voice, "I'd want you to kill me, too. Right at the same moment." I nuzzle my cheek against his groin, enjoying the heat of him and the obvious want, before adding, softly, "But that's not what I meant."

"Jesus." His breathing is accelerated, shallow. I kiss his hip bones as I tug down his pyjamas and he sighs, "You're absolutely barking." Any sting those words might have had (and from anyone else, they would never be so casually tolerated) is eased by the firm, steady fingers that wind their way into my hair, both gentle and eager in their grip. I know he thinks I'm mad (and perhaps I  _am_  mad; certainly my childhood psychologists seemed to lean towards that line of reasoning) but I know he relishes my madness, basks in it like no one else has ever done. The thought of that, of John Watson drawn to insanity like a moth to flame, makes me grin, and as a reward I drop one careful kiss on his frenulum as I stroke him slowly, softly, my grip not yet firm enough to be anything more than a tease.

"You love my madness," I say, aware that I'm grinning foolishly and equally aware that, at the moment, I don't mind.

John's leaned up again (he loves to watch, his gaze muddy and hungry but constantly locked on me) and he strokes my cheek as he whispers, with near unbearable fondness, "I love  _you_."

I can't respond to that (if I try I will never stop; my outpouring of affection for this broken soldier, my blogger and lover and everything in between, will wash him away) so instead I quicken my hand and slide my tongue, once, over the slit of his cock. He groans softly, his fingers tightening their hold in my hair, and it reminds me: "The little death, John."

"Hmm?" I don't think he's capable of speech at this point, not with his eyes so hazy and his chest rising and falling in such rapid turns, but I know he'll understand me.

"French colloquialism," I say in between surreptitious licks, "for orgasm." I swallow him down, release him. I'm panting as I manage, shakily, "John, I want to watch you  _die_."

His hips are bucking and I don't tease him now; I take the length of him, circle my tongue, listen to the lovely noises he makes. "God, Sherlock," he gasps. Clearing his throat, he mumbles, "Thought you said it wasn't dirty talk, that French bit."

I pull away from him just long enough to say, "It wasn't."

"Could've fooled me." Anything else John wants to say is swept away in a loud, trembling moan. The toes of his left foot curl; I recognise the signal. He's close.

A few more strokes, a few more deep sucks, the careful placement of my thumb on his perineum- and then it happens: John dies, the smallest death. And it's beautiful. It's every crime scene I've examined, every sound I've ever drawn from my violin, every careful stitch in my favorite purple shirt and every chemical reaction in recorded history.  _La petite mort_ : my gift to John.

I slide my way back up his body, tasting his flesh as I go, and settle my head just under his chin. I can feel John breathing beneath me, feel the thrum of his heart in his chest, his wrist, his neck. I don't have to measure his heart rate to know that it's elevated (but I do anyway, because I love the data and nothing about John is irrelevant). It feels safer to say it now, now that he's not looking at me and I know his mind is muzzy with endorphins, so I blurt out: "I love you, John."

"Mm." He picks up my hand and kisses his way down my fingers and to my palm. (I imagine he can taste himself there, and the image brings a flush of heat to my stomach.) "If that's true," he says, kissing the veins of my wrist, "then I'm the luckiest bastard on the planet."

"It's true," I gasp, because his mouth has moved to my neck and I'm suddenly breathless.

"Good." Lips trailing lower; thoughts becoming disordered, nonsensical. "When I thought…" He pauses in his pursuit, looks up at me with his chin jabbing gently into the softer skin of my abdomen. "It killed me. Thinking I was alone in this."

 _John._ I shake my head, the smallest of movements and the only thing I can manage, and he smiles at me almost shyly before letting his mouth fall back to my skin.  _I won't ever let him die again_ , I think fiercely,  _without me being there to watch it happen._


End file.
